


A World You Long To See

by phantomreviewer



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-17
Updated: 2013-03-07
Packaged: 2017-11-25 20:34:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 12,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/642702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomreviewer/pseuds/phantomreviewer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which it was Enjolras who was struck to the bone in a moment of breathless delight, and who knows that the world can actually be changed in just one burst of light. And now he’s got to reassess  his world view to include a young cynic who cares not a whit for his dreams of a revolution, a revolution that will swiftly be a reality.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. (Look Down) "Something's Got To Happen Now"

**Author's Note:**

> I’m sure someone must have thought of this before and if I unleash this beast then hopefully someone better equipped can tame the idea, but I had to give my hand to writing it. Basically, what would have happened of instead of Marius seeing Cosette it had been Enjolras seeing Grantaire for the first time? Enter a whirlwind of romantic (and unexpectedly sexual) desire from France’s favourite chaste revolutionary leader and now he’s got to deal with this was well as trying to raise a successful revolution. When did his life become so complicated? (And when did Les Miserables read like a romantic comedy?) Despite appearances, this hopefully is not going to descend into total crack…

“Vive la France! Vive la France!”

Grantaire can hear the shout from where he is leant watching the world goes by. The haze of the wine makes the cry sound more melodic than one would expect from what was essentially a cry to war.

It was hard not to notice the revolutionary zeal spreading through the city. Pockets of enthusiastic young boys, no older than Grantaire himself, crying out for a free France, for General Lamarque and for liberty for the French People. They were a rousing sight to be sure, with their passion for their cause bleeding through the words that they said.

Oh but they’d get themselves killed. Everyone knew it, but them.

And yet no one thought to tell them. There were the old men certainly that took them by the hand and tried to instil messages of history and the mothers and widows who wept when they walked past radiating faith in the future. But no one, to Grantaire’s knowledge had ever told them that their planned revolution would fail.

Perhaps it would make a difference.

But with their bubbling enthusiasm, he thinks not.

Pity.

Perhaps their death would serve their cause better than their lives. It seems likely. The bodies of dead school boys have more conviction than the words of passionate students.

You would see them dotted around Paris, in the cafés and in the streets, trying to raise the people into their rebellion. But while their words and ideals were pretty they lacked any practical value and application. There was a fear in the streets that more than outweighed the desires for the future. All the people have is the present, as terrible as it is, and they will not be persuaded to risk that equilibrium, it is little enough to live on.

No, they were going to get themselves killed.

But not Grantaire. A rebellion doomed to fail was not for the likes of him. Very little was for the likes of Grantaire, but it was enjoyable enough to watch Paris pass him by. He was content. In a world like this one it was little enough to be content, and so Grantaire makes the most of it. He studies law as though it were a hobby and drinks as though it were an occupation. He has many companions but no close friends.

But that is of no consequence, nothing in life is. There is nothing grounding him to the world that he occupies, and so he is content to drink, to think and to cut down the opinions of others in such a way that while they can appreciate that they’re being insulted but not how.

There is no passion to raise the flag of freedom, not when he has his relatively comfortable view of a relative comfortable world and something to drink. It requires little effort to live, while it requires dedication, faith and camaraderie to die for a hopeless cause.

How nice it would be to have such a cause, vive la France, indeed.

There is a young man standing across the street watching him.

And so Grantaire looks back, because this is what he does and the man is a sight for sore eyes. He is a gift for Grantaire’s thirsty soul. He is dressed in deep purple with ice flecks for eyes and golden curls abounding about his shoulders. He is beautiful.

And looking straight at Grantaire.

Very few people look Grantaire in the eye for long.

Many of them dislike seeing themselves reflected within him. But the stranger does not look away.

And the man is entirely too beautiful for the dingy Parisian streets, and perhaps he is a creation of Grantaire’s bored and lonely mind, sprung to life from his fantasies and his restless nights. It would explain why the man has not yet looked away.

He raises the bottle in his hand to his illusion in a mock salute.

And then he falters, as the man’s stony face cracks into the thinnest of smiles and he bows his head to Grantaire, golden locks tumbling into his eyes.

If few people look at Grantaire then no man has bowed to him.

And yet the man across the street is real, his fellow men brush past him as they walk and Grantaire can see the bob of his Adam’s apple in his throat. Where he an illusion Grantaire doubts that he would have included the details of stubble and a firm throat.

And, that is a pistol at his belt, a red sash at his waist and a cockade at his breast.

The man is a revolutionary. And all the more wonderful for it.

He is passion, and splendour and fire and France.

And he is death. 

He is beautiful and Grantaire feels his chest ache with the loss of it. 

He has known men in the most intimate ways in his life, but this man looks like he could be something Grantaire could anchor himself within. He wants to scoff at himself, because he is just one man of thousands and the fates are never so kind. If the fates exist at all. Grantaire is a man of the world and knows that to be content is to be happy and that to strive for a better world, whether that be in crossing the street and receiving a slap to the face for his impudence or to taking to a barricade, is a risk not worth taking.

The man is still looking at him, and Grantaire supposes that this is how Apollo would look at Daphne. The passion in his eyes makes him swallow - They could be the stuff of legends- but that zeal is not for Grantaire.

But, he is a revolutionary, and will soon be awash with the blood of the dead, staining his golden hair red and riddling his well-cut waistcoat with bullets.

He is so beautiful though.

He will make a beautiful martyr. 

Grantaire raises the bottle to his lips and once he has blinked and swallowed the vision of the avenging angel has disappeared into the busy Paris streets.

He thinks, idly, that he could believe in anything for that man.


	2. (Red and Black) “Stirring the blood in their veins”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Otherwise entitled: You can take Enjolras to Grantaire, but you can’t make him admit that he’s in love. )
> 
> I found Enjolras quite hard to write, and this chapter went through several editions, but I hope that his infatuation is both believable and evident!
> 
> I wasn't expected to publish a chapter today, and I probably won't be updating with this much frequency in the future but once I'd managed to tame Enjolras I couldn't think of a reason not to post.

The enthusiasm of the ABC is a driving, contagious force spread through the agents of good cheer, wise words and a burning hope for the future.

It is for such a future that they are willing to put their own at risk. And yet they remain immortal in their ideals, there is no force alive that can muster honest and true revolution and this is to what they hoist their flag. The people shall come to them and support their cause as it is their own and France shall be free. It is inevitable.

It is in the details of application that they are meeting for, to discuss when to rally the people and whom to send to gather supplies. And they look to him as he speaks, he is so proud to lead them, and so proud he is the figure that they place above all others, and he only hopes that he can lead them to all the success that they are due.

But even Enjolras himself can admit that he was not on spectacular form this evening, while his head is forever within the realms of Patria the same cannot be said of his heart, which is wandering the Parisian streets looking the man from earlier. He is not a man often distracted and his thoughts confuse him as much as they enthral him.

Even as he begins to hope that the ABC are too full of fervour and passion for the fight to come to question their leader’s faraway gaze Joly cocks his head in Enjolras’ direction.

“Enjolras, are you quite with us this evening? Are you ill?”

At the question of the chief’s health there is a ripple of quiet thrumming through the second floor of the Musian, it’s not enough to silence the ABC, but a few of the men cease checking their rifles, and Combeferre and Courfeyrac turn to face him.

“No, no, my friends, I am quite well-”

He isn’t blushing as he might be expected to. Enjolras feels his expression go stony, as though he is afraid that his friends could read his thoughts from his face. But then he reasons with himself that these men are indeed his friends, and that there is more to their lives that Patria and the call of the revolution. There has never been more to him than the promise of freedom, however.

“Except, something took place on my way to our meeting. I had something of an altercation with a fellow countryman-”

“An enemy of the state?”

Someone has had too much wine, but their enthusiasm abound and mixed in with the laughter at the drunken comment and Enjolras knows that should he agree then this man could be hunted down on his word alone.

He shakes his head to rid the idea from his brain, these men have a cause that that is not to attest to his every whim regarding men from the street. He should not even be entertaining the idea.

“Not in so many words. Forget I spoke friends, come, tell me Combeferre how are our allies in Notre Dame?”

This appears to be enough to settle the majority of his companions, but Combeferre and Marius draw closer taking their seats around the small tables. They lean their heads together, and Combeferre is breathing in probably to allow himself enough air to give his report in the one breath, when Enjolras involuntarily lets out a sigh.

“Enjolras,” he says instead, quietly, “Are you sure that you are well? You must share your burdens and I have never heard you speak this way before.”

Enjolras gave a breathless laugh and shook his head slightly, trying to reassess his thoughts in line with Combeferre’s concern.

He speaks before he can think better of it, before he can close the door on the thoughts that he cannot escape.

“To speak truly I do not know if I have ever spoken this way before Combeferre. Nor felt it.”

It was almost comical to see Marius’ eyebrows raise into his hairline and to see Combeferre trying to maintain his composure. But, looking closer into Combeferre’s expression, it wasn’t one of humour yet of some form of pity.

It did not sit well with the feeling in Enjolras’ chest.

Combeferre leans further forward, all ideas of discussing the revolution have seemingly been passed aside, and Enjolras cannot decide whether he wishes to examine this topic within his heart further or to let it rest deep within him and dedicate himself to the revolution until he can dwell on his thoughts in peace.

The decision is taken out of his hands.

“Enjolras, if you happen- if you are in love, then that is nothing to be ashamed of. It happens to most men in their turn, even revolutionaries. Look at Marius, dedicating himself to love of his short life and still giving himself to the rebellion. It is possible to have both Enjolras.”

Marius appears surprised to have been invoked in conversation, although he normally cannot resist discussing the daughter of Mousier Fauchelevent in their company. He seems content enough to smile, as though just the thought of his love is enough to stave away his woes. Enjolras tries not to think of the man with the bottle green waistcoat. 

“Love cannot be so instantaneous, to be inspired by nothing more than a mutual look across the street. I am dedicated to the cause, and Patria has, and will always be mistress and master to me both.”

It is as though his friends cannot hear his objections, or whether they can hear them too clearly as falsehoods.

“Come Enjolras, tell us about her.”

Joly, who has been standing behind their conversation takes this opportunity to lean forward and pats a hand to Enjolras’ shoulder.

He owes them no explanations, but to tell them something of the truth may help to unburden his thoughts.

His thoughts have always been so certain, for the freedom of Paris and for the liberty of the French people. But now there is one man in particular who he wishes to take liberties with.

“It if would please you to hear me speak. Dark curls framing a slender face, nothing unusual of that appearance. Not a splash of revolutionary red about them apart from the lips. It was but a vision on a Paris street. You all know that I hold no accord to such passions.”

His friends do not believe him, and Enjolras is not sure that he believes himself.

One more glance would be enough to affirm or deny these thoughts, he thinks, if he could see him again then he would know. Love is not instantaneous, and even he had to learn of his love for France.

Combeferre is leaning towards Enjolras again; face suddenly much more serious than it had been moments before.

“Enjorlas, I know you and do not think that I am going to ask this lightly, and I ask with no judgement, but this vision was of no woman, was it?”

Only Enjolras has heard Combeferre’s hushed words, masked by the growing noise of the Musian and how they had been urgently pressed into him in a whisper. He swallows shaking his head. He is in the process of giving all of himself to this uprising and it would be an untruth not to give this as well. His friends ought to know the man they treat as their chief, or at least Combeferre.

And Combeferre has never shown himself to be truer because he simply leans back into his chair, smiles and nods.

“Be careful as you go Enjolras.”

But regardless of where his heart is at, Enjolras’ head is always in the revolution, even if he would like to be able to access the rationality of his heart in its own right. But Enjolras cannot be separated from the revolution, as sure as night follows day he will strive for the future.

“We fast approaching the dawn of a new world Combeferre, the loneliness of my soul is immaterial to the revolution. Should be survive the night and win the day, then I shall continue to think on love. Until that day, or until my death, then Patria shall be my mistress.”

It is Combeferre’s turn to sigh, and it as though Enjolras is being a petulant child as opposed to a dedicated soldier. 

“Enjolras.”

Leaning back in his chair Enjolras shakes his curls from his eyes as though a change of scene would settle his thoughts. But he is decided.

“No, I am doing what is right.”

And now Marius, as though finally called out of his memories, smile still signed across his face looks at Enjolras with such empathy in his eyes that he wishes to shake him to recall the young romantic into the real world. No matter how he might wish it, the ideal of love cannot solve the problems of the world and Enjolras is a leader.

“Sometimes what feels right is in fact wrong. Seek your heart Enjorlas, for while you have not been yourself this evening I can see in your eyes how I feel when I am with my Cosette.”

And suddenly Enjolras must know what young Marius’ thoughts on love truly are, for while he has spoken of his love for Fauchelevent’s daughter it has always been personal. Enjolras realises that he knows little of love, and perhaps he is simply exaggerating the effect of the man in his own mind. It cannot be love.

“We mock you in jest Marius, but we respect that the love you have for your Cosette is true, of a purer application than that of, say, Courfeyrac and his companions. But how would you know what love meant? You met each other when they moved to the city years ago and now you are thoroughly content, although you were content before. These thoughts contain nothing physical, they are all conjecture and theory.”

And his thoughts are not concise but Marius can see through them. 

“Think of her.”

And although Enjolras has already set himself to forget the events of the day, as best he can, he can’t help but visualise the mess of black curls. They are like a stain on the stonework of Paris, and he could trace the shell of his ear with his tongue while whispering him the words of Robespierre. Those elegant hands with their long clever fingers, seen wrapped around a wine stem would reach out- and oh to imagine them wrapped around-

This time Enjolras knows that his face is flushing, more than a delicate rose to the marble of his cheeks and Marius’ eyes are twinkling.

“It is love, my friend, you cannot deny that.”

Idly, Enjolras thinks, he has rarely seen his friends so happy. They look utterly content with having passed aside the revolution for the discussion of his own happiness. But, regardless of love or the eyes of the anonymous gentleman, Enjolras will only truly be happy when France is has her liberty once more.

He must restore order to his court. 

Enjolras stands, taking his place.

“Perhaps, and yet, it cannot be. It will not be, it was a fleeting moment that will not be relived. But listen, the people shall come to us and our rising will flourish. We have faith in the people and the people have faith in us. Listen to how they support us in the streets and how they watch us.”

But he is thinking of how one man in particular, whose view of the revolution was unknown had watched him so intensely from across the street.

Surely this is a curse, he can see no reason why his companions reveal in his plight, although he is still faintly smiling.

Conversation is turning back to the closeness of the hour, and his friends are as loyal to the rebellion as he.

“Listen-”

Courfeyrac is standing by the boy, the young Gavroche, and the news he shares sweeps thoughts of love from his head if not his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on the time line, I'm basically acting as though Jean Valjean and Cosette entered Paris society a years prior to this story taking place, back when the ABC were forming and the plans of revolution were only ideas. In that situation Marius and Cosette fell in love, and with Javert not yet on the scene, Valjean approved of their relationship because Marius was from a good family and she would be taken care of should anything happen to him. Marius simply cannot stop talking about Cosette to les amis, and they all good naturedly mock him for his affections. And then the plans for the revolution became more solid and Enjolras saw Grantaire across the street and so we must return to the narrative...


	3. (Do you hear the people sing?) “When the beating of your heart echoes the beating of the drums”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because she’s been very accommodating by answering my texts about how Enjolras is romantically incompetent* at all manners of the day and night during her exam period this chapter is for Annabel.
> 
> *Spoiler warning, I don't think that was quite the language I was using when describing our illustrious leader...

Grantaire has been nursing the same bottle since he entered the run-down café. Men who are unused to drink apply themselves to the allure of the green fairy to forget their troubles, but as Grantaire knows, men who spend their lives intoxicated cannot so easily remember what it is to forget.

His relative abstinence is by no means approaching sobriety, it would take more than a few hours to clear his head but he can feel the sharp truth of day striking their way through his addled thoughts. He does not like it.

And yet he does not request more wine. Nor does he make any motion towards his remaining liquid luck.

There are rousing cries above him, and it seems that Grantaire cannot escape the threat of revolution today.

The café is busy, and whatever words that are being used to rally the eager cannon fodder in the room above them cannot quite be heard, but their muster is undeniable. He wonders, while idly turning the bottle around in his hands, whether this is the same in every café in Paris. Could enough students playing at rebellion make turn it into reality? Even if they had the support of every man in Paris they are still doomed to failure, as is every man in his turn.

He wishes that they would cease, and that he could drink and forget that better men than him will die just so the world can forget them. But they neither stop their anthem of death, and nor does Grantaire raise the bottle to his lips.

Despite his better judgement, Grantaire cannot stop thinking of the man with the fire in his heart, the gold in his hair and the ice in his eyes. But regardless of his godly visage it will be blood that runs through those veins and that will soon run red on the streets. It is a hopeless dream, both of uprising and of the man coming to him in the night.

Indeed, the sooner that Grantaire can place the man who bowed to him to the back of his mind the better it shall be for all concerned.

And yet he knows that he will be having misplaced dreams that night. And for every night to come.

In the room above him the schoolboys are still singing out for the future and Grantaire’s fellow patrons are not batting an eyelid to their cries. There is neither support nor anguish in their eyes. If only the would-be revolutionaries could see their apathy. And it must be a bitter twist of fate for the café which Grantaire graced with his presence to be a hub of the revolution.

But to a cynical mind nothing can be coincidence.

For the gods are cruel, if they are not already dead.

And Grantaire is a cynic; it is in his blood as much as the wine is. It bleeds through his veins. Should they day ever come when they cut him open it would be the first note on the doctor’s autopsy.

_Here lies R- Grantaire. Sceptic to the bone. Heart blackened by the bottle and soul worn down by life in this world. Cynical to his very core._

Except Grantaire will die with a bottle in hand and will be buried in a poor-man’s grave, with no one to mourn his loss or to clutch at his limp hand as the light leaves his eyes.

After all, he is a cynic and knows how the world works, and there are not people in this world meant for the likes of him.

And just like that, his thoughts are returned to the vision in the street mere hours earlier.

The man is glorified in Grantaire’s memory, his radiant curls embellished with pure gold and his coat studded with amethyst until he is sparking like fine champagne in Grantaire’s mind. Champagne is not one of Grantaire’s vices, but he would spend his final sou on finding the right vintage to match the man’s voice.

He has never heard him speak, but he knows that such an act must be possible. Some would show their adoration for another with fine prose or with witticism, but Grantaire knows more than any man that words and whispers do not last but that the tangible can bring so great a pleasure.

Grantaire would so love to fist his hand in the man’s curls.

It would feel like silken straw and run through his fingers like water.

There is little in life that Grantaire finds unquestionably beautiful, but should his soul ever be discovered and any man risk his own to uncover the truth, buried far beneath and between the nihilism and misanthropy, Grantaire is an artist.

And the man makes him want to paint.

He has not painted for months, too unwilling to sully the images in his head by placing them to paper with shaking hands and unsteady fingers.

If only he could see him again, and then Grantaire would paint him with his eyes and trace his features with charcoal.

He could encase him in oils, gild his hair and sign ‘Grantaire’ upon the man’s heart.

It scares him that he could think so highly of one that he had seen so briefly.

And will not see again. His mind, drunk on its abstinence and on the memory of the man’s eyes, has seemingly forgotten that those eyes will not be seeing anything, let alone Grantaire for much longer in this mortal world.

Death comes to all men in their turn and those that take up flags and fine words against the inevitability of time will fall before those who stand aside.

Grantaire does not feel ashamed of his allegiance to his own life. His life is worth so little in the grand scheme of the world, and it is only he who will ever appreciate it. There is nothing grand in death, and it is the great equaliser to revolutionary, republican and royalist all. Grantaire has no cause and thus his death has no worth. If he will not die for something, then he will live for himself.

After all, he will soon be the only one left.

The laughter and boyish jubilance that accompanies the dance of death is becoming louder, and Grantaire raises the bottle, finally, to his lips.

Even memories fade with time.

They must.

And just as Grantaire is decided upon leaving the idea of the beautiful soul in the street behind him, on turning his adoration of the anonymous student into a memorial to the fallen yet to come, he hesitates.

There are footsteps upon the stairs, pressing downwards, and Grantaire turns, although normally he wouldn’t flinch at such an inconsequential movement. It allows him to see the young boys, flowing from their den with their cockades shining and their eyes bright.

They would walk so readily into the arms of death, and Grantaire has to mourn them already, and it is just as he is shaking his head that he is struck silent and still.

The café falls quiet around him, but Grantaire’s breath is caught by the clashing of memory and lust in his throat.

It is Apollo descended from the heavens, to walk among men like him, and eyes piercing directly into Grantaire’s soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (As I’m sure you’ve noticed by now, I’m basing my chapters around the songs, but it was only after plotting it out I realised that I’d been working to the Dream Cast order of songs, as opposed to the 2012 film. So let’s just imagine that in order to be on top form for General Lamarque’s funeral the ABC had a quick practice of Do You Hear The People Sing that evening.)


	4. (In My Life / A Heart Full of Love) “This is a chain we’ll never break”

Enjolras is grateful to Combeferre, who is far more astute than even Enjolras had suspected him of being. Combeferre, who in noticing his momentary pause in step, follows the direction of Enjolras’ gaze and must recall the brief description he gave them. In an action that looks as fluid and natural as the tide, he guides the others from the café and they are gone in a crest of witticism and fine fabric.

As he reaches the door Combeferre turns and looks back at him, and Enjolras can see something play across his face but then he nods and turns back to the vision of earlier, come back to haunt him in his café.

The man, who had been sitting so straight in his chair has slouched as Enjolras approaches, and again he raises his wine bottle in half salute.

“Long live the revolution.”

He is sitting alone, and Enjolras folds himself into the opposing chair without waiting for offer or acceptance.

“Are you one of us?”

Enjolras folds his hands in front of him and holds himself still. He resolutely must know.

“I am not. I am a free agent of politics or,” the man takes a gulp of his wine and Enjolras following the bob of his Adam’s apple with his eyes, “-an agent free of politics.”

For a man to have no politics, to have no view upon the future of his country and his fellow men, it is unthinkable for Enjolras, to whom even the everyman on the street strives for freedom and for a better world.

“But can a man truly be free from politics?”

He is settling into conversation as smoothly as he would discuss with Jehan and Feuilly except he has no guarantee of the direction of discussion from this point in. To come across a conflict of interest should be exciting, but on the eve of rebellion it is unsettling.

“Are you asking if a man can truly be free? With your convictions I would not tread that road.”

And Enjolras wants to be angry, as his ideals are being mocked by this man before him. That he can see the haze of wine in his eyes as he takes all that Enjolras holds next to his heart and spits on it. But there is perhaps something within him. There might just be something beyond his extraneous beauty and his bitter words. Hopefully.

And the man is beautiful, even in his ugliness of spirit. He is more human than he was in Enjolras’ memory. Instead of being glorified he is brought down. His hair is more like sprung wire than it is eiderdown. The man is only human. But he is still so grand in his wasted opportunity. 

He yet does not like the man before him. He has no convictions and his spirit is weak. It is enough for Enjolras’ rational sense of right to cast aside the idle thoughts regarding what could have been should the man have lived up to his image. And he cannot stand and leave. Not without knowing it all.

It is a character trait that he embraces; Enjolras cannot abandon his thoughts to become idle half-truths. He must strive to know all of a matter, or die trying. It is the spirit of revolution coursing through him.

“Did you follow me here?”

The man, who had been staring so intently at him has now dropped his eyes and is cradling his wine again.

He laughs, and it sounds cruel and hostile. 

“As though I could. You can’t follow concept. You sir, are an idea, not a man. The living embodiment of the fight for freedom. How could I hope follow that through Paris?”

Enjolras is not unused to those who posit him as more than his is. But that does not make it true.

The man laughs again, but this time it has a different tone to it, as though his own he is addressing himself as opposed to Enjolras. Enjolras wonders whether he is even there to the man at all.

“I’m doing this rather wrong, I am drunk on life as they say, as well as on wine. My name is Grantaire, and I am at your service.”

The man appears to pull himself back together – it shows as a physical act, and Enjolras can see the man’s shoulders knotting together and his neck straining against his cravat- and he catches Enjolras eye with a wicked smile on his lips.

And while the man is certainly drunk, as Enjolras cannot imagine a sober man propositioning him such in broad daylight in the café, and he cannot imagine himself replying to any man but the one before him. He does not yet understand it.

He reaches his hand across the table, not sure if he wants Grantaire to take his hand or not. Now that he has met the man in the flesh his thoughts are even more confused. He dislikes the man intrinsically, but the sensation of his palm pressed against man’s hand’s fingertips as he elongates the handshake into something obscene.

“Enjolras.” 

The man smiles, and there’s something pleasing in his eyes, for a fraction of a second Enjolras can see something beyond his apathy. He wants that back. He wants to see the passion in Grantaire’s eyes.

He squeezes the proffered hand.

“And no man is at my service, we are all equal. All brothers.”

It isn’t quite a snigger, but Grantaire’s eyebrow rises, ever so slightly, and Enjolras can feel the blood thudding through his veins.

He drops his hand and it falls open on the table like a promise.

For the first time in Enjolras’ adult life he is unsure of his own motivations. Of what he wants from this encounter. If he wants anything at all. 

He detests the man, Grantaire on principle, but his grip is smooth and firm despite the drink and Enjolras still has the memory of the spark of something within his eyes. He can inspire fervour in les amis de l’abc with his words, but he wants to see if his touch can inspire anything in this man. 

Enjolras has been built for the revolution, for the future of a free France, whether his life is its instrument or his death its building blocks, he has not been built for love.

The man, Grantaire, as if able to read his doubts in his eyes, stops staring at him with those flaming eyes, and instead takes a slow, gentle swig from his wine. And then pushes the bottle towards Enjolras.

The bottle of wine, Enjolras images that it would taste bittersweet, of France and broken dreams, is sitting behind them like a peace treaty.

The café is not silent. It is full of life. Full of people that Enjolras will risk everything to free.

When Enjolras raises the bottle to his lips it is like a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I would like to apologise for all the foreshadowing in this chapter and the chapters to come, but I'm afraid that I'm a cruel person and wouldn't really mean it. Angst is so delicious.)


	5. (One Day More) “Do I stay or do I dare?”

The roughly cobbled streets of Paris are silent, anticipating the dawn. It feels like France is holding her breath, and Grantaire doesn’t think that he could translate the impenetrable darkness beyond the safety of his bed to paint, let alone to words. So he doesn’t even attempt to.

Why try to interpret the impossible?

Instead he folds himself deeper into the rough sheets, exhausted from the supplication of the night and watches.

Despite having traced the contours of his chest with his fingertips, recalling the spread of his thighs with his cheek and knowing intimately how he could sigh so prettily through the most private moments, Enjolras looks as he had the first time Grantaire had laid eyes on him.

He has neither been glorified nor devalued by Grantaire’s touch. 

He remains untouchable and untouched.

Grantaire does not know whether he is glad of this or whether his inability to become immortal on Enjolras’ skin is a failing that he should be ashamed of.

And he does feel ashamed. But he does not wish to trouble himself to think of why.

Perhaps not even death will be able to mark Enjolras. After all Grantaire cannot imagine that anything could mark him now. He has touched the soul of a cynic and come out of it unscathed and unchanged. This gives him no hope for the survival of Enjolras however. Marble can shattered even as it does not decay.

Grantaire’s chest is still heaving and he is the only noise in the small room as Enjolras pulls his shirt together with steady fingers.

Enjolras is as still and silent as Paris, even in movement. And Grantaire would suspect that he was more than human, something beyond the dust that man must return to, had the evening not proven otherwise. He cannot bring himself to break this silence that has come upon him.

Grantaire is intoxicated on the man reforming before him.

Enjolras does not look at him until he has taken up the red sash that had been discarded under Grantaire’s bed- and had laid there like blood throughout their encounter. He winds the sash around his hands in a firm, steady motion. 

It looks to Grantaire as though Enjolras is purifying himself.

And well he might be.

Grantaire is toxic.

He has always known this. But with bitter pride he knows that he has served their revolution well, in the only way that he could. He can be of no more purpose having given his all to be used. And even if he could do more, he still does not know if he would.

Grantaire moves to sit straight upon the bed, with the sheets pooling in his lap although he cannot feel the chill of the room caught in Enjolras’ ice gaze.

“I think that I could love you.”

It is not a thought that Grantaire had considered worth expressing, but with Enjolras staring him down he feels the pressure of confession.

Enjolras says nothing but Grantaire cannot bring himself to regret his words.

“One day, that is.”

Grantaire can feel his curls brushing against his neck as he shakes his head. His chuckle feels hollow even in his own throat.

And finally, once Grantaire stops laughing Enjolras speaks for the first time since he’d set forth demands when the sun was still low in the sky.

“Would that that day could come.”

Grantaire’s smile is genuine, and he is delighted to see something beyond resentment directed towards him.

“Indeed.” 

Except, they are both ignoring the inevitability of what tomorrow will bring. The sky will be blood red by dawn and throughout the morning, until the darkness returns. And perhaps Enjolras and his fellow boys of the barricade know their fate after all, because they will surely bleed into the Paris streets and yet Enjolras is not afraid as he stands by the small window in Grantaire’s rooms illuminated by moonlight. He is the closest thing to a god that Grantaire has ever seen, and this is the closest to belief that he has ever felt.

“I wish that I could say something similar.”

And while Enjolras’ voice is bitter and it might only be Grantaire’s imagination, but there might be a thread to truth to it. 

The silence is comforting, like the first mouthful of wine at the beginning of the day and the routine of it makes Grantaire nostalgic for something that he knows he cannot have.

Enjolras’ calves are pressed against the unkempt bed linen and Grantaire imagines that he can feel the heat of his body. He cannot, but he could reach out and touch.

He suspects that now, -once Enjolras is the man he was in Grantaire’s memory once again, as opposed to the man in his bed- his hands would burn pressed against his flesh.

And yet Grantaire reaches forward and tugs loose the crimson cloth from Enjolras’ slack hands. 

He kneels stark naked on the bed, highlighted by moonlight, as he reaches around Enjolras’ body, enfolding him in his arms and the scarlet ribbon.

Enjolras allows Grantaire, unworthy as he is, to complete his battle armour for the dawn to come.

Grantaire is surprised to find that his hands do not shake and that his fingers are steady as he ties the final knot.

After hesitating his hand over knot for a moment Grantaire reaches up, fully expecting the man’s contempt, and presses his hand against the flat of Enjolras’ chest and Enjolras permits it.

And after a long moment, Enjolras speaks.

“I do not hold you in my regard. And yet I do not know whether I would feel more should I see you again or if I should I not. I do not like you, and yet I would not like to see you fall with us. You are unworthy to join us and yet you treat me as your leader. You are an enigma, Mousier Grantaire the cynic.” 

Grantaire can feel himself gravitate around the man as though he were an idol. And perhaps he is. 

“Do must not return to the café where we met. Our barricade shall take its place at the Rue de Villette and you would only hinder our cause. For my sake, let me not see you again until France is free. Whenever that may be.”

And Grantaire does not know how to reply to that, for should Enjolras ask he supposes he could follow the man into hell itself. But he would not ask and Grantaire must decide whether to obey or whether to defy. For a moment Enjolras presses his hand to Grantaire’s and Grantaire is skin to skin with Enjolras once more and he cannot bear to be parted. 

Then Enjolras is stepping backwards, before straightening the line of his red jacket around his newly replaced sash and walking out into the night.

The room is colder than Grantaire remembers it being, even with the windows cast open to the skies in the middle of the night. He has become accustomed to the warmth, whether it comes from Enjolras or from the alcohol.

Sitting alone in his bed Grantaire has two choices. No matter what decision he makes, he is going to need more wine than he currently has in his system. He tugs the sheet closer around him and reaches down to collect the bottle.


	6. (At the barricade) “In the heart of the city we claim for our own.”

The barricade stands before them, rising across the street as an impenetrable boundary between themselves and freedom.

The day had finally come and they have taken their stance.

The fate of France is now beyond theirs to command and is now in the hands of the National Guard. What the revolutionaries have begun must be ended by the fight to come.

Their barricade is only one of many; they have sprung up throughout the city like wild flowers through the cracks in the cobbles. The National Guard would see them as weeds, but there is such beauty in the city and Enjolras must believe that the people will come to them.

People seek beauty, and there is nothing so pure as the hearts of those striving for a new future.

There is nothing to do but to wait. The day will be long and hard as will the fight, but there is hope covering the barricade likes shroud. 

Marius is dithering, with a pistol in his hand. The old man, Mousier Fauchelevent has come to their barricade, to try and will him away from the fight and into the arms of his daughter. Marius’ choice is his own, but he stands by their barricade and their belief that they will survive to see the new dawn. Enjolras’ heart is emblazoned by his loyalty. However the father of Cosette wants to keep Marius safe, and Enjolras cannot fault him that. Should that he had the power Enjolras would keep all those who look to him safe.

Fauchelevent is willing to stand and fight with them though, and Enjolras will only send men away when he has no other option.

He will send men away should it come to that.

But until that time comes then he will stand shoulder to shoulder with this lieutenants.

His lieutenants have always been the best of him, while he has had them there can be nothing on this earth than can fell his spirit. He has always had Marius with his romantic heart, Joly’s optimism, Combeferre focused on the peace to come, Courfeyrac centring them, Jehan’s sympathic ear, Bossuet’s belief, Bahorel’s eloquence and Feuilly’s nationalistic fervour. They have always been the best of him and they will continue to be so for the battle to come.

He is proud to call them his brothers in arms.

The mood of the barricade is one of hope and fear combined, and the quiet conversations are only felled by the urchin boy, sitting atop an upturned table, calling gaily out towards them.

“There’s a boy climbing the barricade.”

The students take to their guns at once, but before they shoot they look to Enjolras, who has taken up position by their flag. He may be most vulnerable at the head of the barricade, but it gives him the opportunity to be first watch and to draw their fire.

He looks down.

The man climbing the barricade is Grantaire. He is drunk, clumsily trying to pull his way up and over their barricade, but he catches Enjolras’ gaze and there is something shining in his eyes, beyond the bottle. 

Enjolras should be furious. And he is angry, it is burning its way through his veins but part of him feels relieved. If he is to die then all of him will die, including whatever resides in the man below him. And if they live, well, then he has hope that the future will be better. And that bright future belongs to all men.

“Oh mighty Apollo. Have you room for man who believes in nothing but the cycle of dark nights and dawn?”

The barricade is steady as Grantaire pulls himself along it, which in the back on Enjolras’ mind is a relief. Grantaire is its first test, and it is holding strong. Against the National Guard however, things will certainly be different.

He turns back to his companions with weapons still aimed at the drunken cynic. His blood shall not be the first to wet their barricade. He does not deserve it.

“Stand down, do not shoot.” 

And while his lieutenants unquestionably lower their weapons, they do not stand down. Enjolras turns back to Grantaire watching him prop himself up against their barricade, he does not offer him any assistance.

“I told you, I would rather you were not here”.

Grantaire laughs, and while it is bitter it is not cruel and Enjolras knows what Grantaire thinks of the chances of the barricade succeeding. His presence is an anomalous one.

“And I would rather that I were here, as I presently am. And I should think that the decision should be my own. It is my blood that I risk. You’ve already signed your life away on a fool’s errand. Why shouldn’t I join you? And my choice is my own unless you have claimed me for the revolution?”

Enjolras grits his teeth and finally reaches down a hand, which Grantaire gratefully accepts as he clambers to where Enjolras stands.

“For god’s sake Grantaire, this is not designed to be scaled.” 

Grantaire mutters under his breath and Enjolras pretends not to hear him, so he is not inspired to push instead of pull. But the words, ‘it was not designed at all’ ring clear and true to his ears.

He has just eased Grantaire over the crest of the barricade, with as much grace as can be managed by the pair on them on the unsteady surface, when Grantaire’s face cracks open into an easy smile again.

The descent down towards the Musian is much smoother, and Enjolras notes that the hand he has steadying around Grantaire’s upper arm appears to be enough to convince the others to finally stand down. Either that or the fact that Grantaire looks much less of a risk while staggering next to their leader than he had fearlessly climbing their barricade. He even has a bottle of wine in his hand. Enjolras almost feels impressed.

There is little furniture left in the Musian but an upturned barrel lies near the barricade and Enjolras pushes Grantaire down onto it. He goes willingly enough, staring up at Enjolras, squinting as though Enjolras were the sun itself.

“I suppose that I cannot send you away.”

Grantaire smiles again, cocking his head to the side and shrugs.

“After all the effort it took to climb over here?”

Enjolras sighs, and he knows that the others are waiting to find out about this man who joined them for all the wrong reasons.

Marius, Feuilly and Bossuet have gone to rectify and strengthen their barricade where Grantaire walked through it.

“And why are you here? You have no beliefs, no politics, no cause on this barricade.”

Grantaire will not stop staring at him. As though he could convey whole epics if only Enjolras would keep eye contact with him for long enough.

“No, I have none of what you state.”

If there were a chair, or even a crate then Enjolras would sit as to be Grantaire’s equal, but he does not have that opportunity.

“And yet you are here.”

Grantaire is still looking up at Enjolras, even as he turning the bottle in his hands.

“And yet I am here. Peculiar, isn’t it?”

He drinks, raising the glass bottle to his lips as he keeps eye contact with Enjolras. It is not until Grantaire’s swallow and the bob of his Adam’s apple that Enjolras turns away.

Enjolras does not know what to do with the man.

No one questions how Grantaire came to be one of them to Enjolras’ face, which he is grateful for. Combeferre had suspected something of his evening activities, but as all apart from him had expected Enjolras’ temporary distraction to have been a woman, none suspected Grantaire. 

Since he returned to the Musian that morning, Enjolras had been overly dedicated to the cause, as though bedding Grantaire had resolved him further to the Revolution as opposed to swaying his eyes from the course ahead. There can be no possible change to progress. And this is what must happen for the battle for freedom.

Enjolras knows that there will eventually be talk, especially as when evening comes Grantaire folds himself between Enjolras and barricade as though his was built for it. And perhaps he was. All men must have a purpose and God is merciful in his vengeance after all.


	7. (Drink With Me) “Will the world remember you when you fall?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the film cut out Grantaire's verse from 'Drink With Me' the tone of this chapter accompanied that change.

Grantaire is surrounded by scared little boys, who are trying to be so brave.

The barricades are lined with them sitting, and laughing and drinking as though this is the first time that they’ve realised that they will die tomorrow. They are still full of hope, despite the death they’ve seen and it just makes Grantaire’s want to forget that they ever lived. 

They still have their cause.

The moment that they thought of enacting their dreams of revolution mother France had washed her hands of them, condemning them to an early grave. Grantaire knew this too, and yet here he is.

The barricade has been christened in blood already. There are the soldiers of the National Guard, and there is also a girl. Grantaire hadn’t supposed that Enjolras would let a girl fight on the barricade, but her hair is falling in bloody matted trails as her body is carried into the Musain.

They are going to lay the bodies of the dead on the floor and Grantaire feels ill.

He does not know her name. Grantaire can only vaguely recall the rapidly fired off names given to him in passing or in exchange for swig of wine or the handling of a rifle.

There is Enjolras, there will always be Enjolras but he vaguely recalls a Joly, a Marius and an unfortunately bald man who’s name began with a B, or was it an L?

It scarcely matters. With Enjolras’ approval, or at least without his contempt, he has been accepted onto their barricade. To die with them.

As the girl is taken away Marius cries and both Enjolras and the old man go to him. 

They will see more death before their battle is over. These students are only children. The first death of the barricade and Grantaire wishes that he had not come here.

He certainly would not have come here had he not chanced on making eye contact with Enjolras. Even it was only this morning that he’d considered coming to their barricade. And yet at the moment he cannot bring himself to regret it.

More importantly, he is not willing to leave. Even where it possible Grantaire would not leave the ramshackle barricade that has been built out of spare furniture and hopeless dreams. His choice was made, was pressed into his skin in his rooms that morning and he cannot turn back now. Despite the fact that he knows that he will die. 

Grantaire has lived a useless life. He acknowledges this as smoothly and with as much grace as he’d climbed the barricade. His life has been one of nihilism and self-gratification. And he does not regret that, he has spent the beginning of his short life serving himself, as there had been nothing more worthy. And still, politics holds no appeal, even on the brink of death. What he regards as worthy has not changed, there is still nothing in philosophy drawing him towards his fate, yet he could perhaps give his death to someone else. It is not in his nature, but he now has no alternative, he knows a hopeless cause, he has climbed the barricade, and he has seen for only a few hours the world that could have been his. The world that will never be his, regardless of whether he lives or dies. And so why not die.

He is glad that they have wine. 

They have chosen their barricade well. Not for its defensive strategy or for its natural protection between the crook of the street, Grantaire knows nothing of this. No, they have chosen their barricade well for reasons that Grantaire knows much of, wine. The café that Grantaire had attended earlier is well stocked and there is little enough to be grateful for. 

And for all he has to be grateful for, he is glad to have Enjolras against him. It is only ever fleetingly, while watching from the side-lines he sees Enjolras as the leader he was born to die as, taking checks of gunpowder, supporting his men, readying the boys to battle. But, when the barricade is still and silent, and one of the other young revolutionaries is standing guard, Enjolras sits.

Grantaire hopes that Enjolras is glad to have him here too, but it doubts it. Grantaire is still unsure of whether he is glad to be here himself. He had no choice in the matter, being compelled towards Enjolras wherever the cost and he would not leave. But he is unsure if he is truly glad of it.

Enjolras is willing to sit by him. To catch a few hours’ sleep in the little time they have remaining, curled around the barricade as though it could keep the future from coming. Grantaire could reach out and feel his silken curls once more.

He won’t.

But that is why he is here, so that he could.

Grantaire is beyond scared. He has far surpassed that point, whether that is due to his drinking, due to the pressing figure of Enjolras beside him or due to the hopelessness of the fight. It doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing matters, and that thought, desperate as it is, comforts him as he takes another swig from his refilled bottle. Grantaire is resigned to death. It is a death he has not merited, but so many will die for naught that why shouldn’t Grantaire join them?

It is almost a selfish act. 

He can’t quite convince himself of that. These boys who came into this fight with such hope are shattering slowly under the inevitability of their own death, yet Grantaire remains true. Such is the gift of the cynical; nothing awful can come truly as a surprise. He feels Enjolras sleep against him, golden curls turned into the barricade and the cut of his fine jacket- now damp and mudded- push against Grantaire’s shoulder, but when goodness comes to a cynic out of nowhere could almost be enough to inspire belief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Absolutely no idea what’s going on with Javert with this fic to be perfectly honest… I think he might arrive and be sent away between At the Barricade and Drink With Me what with Valjean being there and recognising him from the off.)


	8. (Dawn of Anguish) “Let us not waste lives.”

They are the last barricade left standing.

All of the other’s had been taken in the night. All of their comrades are fallen.

There is no one coming to support them. Their supporters are either dead by their own defences or had not risen to their call. They are completely alone. A small island of faith in the darkness. 

Their barricade will not hold the National Guard for long.

Passion alone is not enough to muster a revolution. While the revolution will live in their hearts their bodies will not sustain the fight for much longer.

The night has not proven itself to be fruitful, and now they must face the consequences.

Enjolras is not afraid to die.

The veil of death shrouds their barricade and it is always darkest before the dawn.

Death holds no fear for Enjolras, but he knows that his hopeless crusade should not condemn his friends unnecessarily.

The time has come to send away those who are willing to leave. 

It should be blood of martyrs watering the streets, as opposed to the blood of fathers and sons. Those who will be mourned must leave. Those too young to know better should not die for their cause and those with dependants should be saved. The deaths of such would achieve nothing.

And yet few willingly leave when the suggestion is made.

These men, his fellow revolutionaries would willingly dig their own graves, should Enjolras will it, but the pass beyond the barricade to freedom is beyond their means.

To his right Enjolras can see that Mousier Fauchelevent has Marius by the arm, his fingers soft yet firm on the boy’s sleeve. Marius who has always been loyal has a romantic heart, and of the les amis, could be swayed from the barricade. Fauchelevent is whispering urgently, although at the quiet barricade the words carry.

The others turn away, but Enjolras looks on.

Fauchelevent is determined to steer Marius away, and Enjolras agrees with him. 

Anyone who should be saved should go from here. There are many among his number who will be truly mourned with their deaths. Should their revolution fail, as it undoubtedly will, there should be those living to pass on the message of hope. One day there will be a brighter future, and a free France.

That knowledge is enough to give Enjolras contentment to die.

Hopefully it will inspire Marius to live.

And yet Marius still remains still, despite Fauchelevent’s pleas for his daughter. 

“Those with dependants, go from here. Fathers, brothers, if you are the sole provision for your family then leave this place. You have served us well, but you may not continue our fight here.”

There is a ripple across the barricade, and for a moment it could be as a tidal wave of movement, but then his friends fall still. Only Fauchelevent bows his head, either in respect or in gratitude and moves to leave. He does not let go of Marius’ arm.

“Mousier, I thank you for your kindness, but I will not leave with you. Not even for Cosette can I abandon my friends. This is where I belong.”

Enjolras hopes for Marius’ forgiveness for his harshness, but there is little enough love and compassion in the world even before the National Guard descend on their lonely barricade. 

“Marius! I will hear no more of this. You shall go from here and you shall tell your children of our uprising, and you shall honour our names. Go!”

And at his words Marius closes his eyes, filled with unshed tears and allows the father of his beloved to guide him away from this living crypt. Marius tries to speak, but the words do not appear, but Enjolras can imagine them. 

He watches the pair of them leave, creeping between their barricade and into the streets, scurrying into the dawn before the approaching guard take their positions.

They will live on in Marius’ memory, escalated beyond their means, no doubt.

Enjolras turns from the barricade to look over his remaining men. They are silent, and resigned to the fate of the day. There is no one to lead the rest of them to safety, and soon they will be in the arms of the lord. But his words have held the others, as they have always held those who listened to Enjolras speak, and they keep the faith almost blind to the fact that Enjolras’ words will have lead them to death. All but one.

“You too Grantaire.”

Grantaire stands before him, as bright eyed as any of his fellows and he does not respond. Instead he only drink from the bottle once more, which he must be refilling from the Musian. It isn’t as though the wine has a better use, not any more.

The National Guard are coming ever closer.

They are his toy army, boys playing at heroes and they all believe so fearlessly for this new world that they would lay down their lives without knowing what they do. This is not to say that when looking death down the eye of a barrel they are naive, but they believe- or they had believed in the triumph of freedom. But this man alone knew of his fate before taking to the barricade.

As Enjolras steps down from the barricade others rise to take his place, to take the watch.

Enjolras stands close to Grantaire, so that his words will only fall to Grantaire’s ears. Grantaire doesn’t flinch, instead his eyes pierce into Enjolras’ and he doesn’t blink, as though he couldn’t bear to sever the connection. Enjolras feels the power in that gaze, it is the same gaze that made Enjolras suspect Grantaire had the ability to be greater than he was. It is why he should leave.

“Why will you not leave? You do nothing to aid us. Did you come here to die? Is your life worth so little?”

Grantaire laughs; it is shallow and makes no impression on the impenetrable sadness in his eyes.

“Oh Enjolras, I came here to live.”

But his smile is real now, and his eyes crinkle at their corners as he raises the bottle to his lips.

And that is the final word on the matter.

Enjolras does not push it further, instead allowing his arm to brush Grantaire’s before he turns away. They need more ammunition, as the rain has damaged the power and he ought to oversee what is being done.

He knows that in turns his back, that he is condemning a man who willing gives his life for a revolution he has no belief in. 

Grantaire had spoken of love, in the riddles that encased their conversation and what man could be willing to die for anything less. Enjolras is laying down his life for his love for his country, as are his friends. But Grantaire has no such passion for the cause. Despite Enjolras’ dedication he accepts the basest instincts within humanity. The relationship between himself and Grantaire had been consummated almost instantly. In the heat of battle men strive for release. But there had been no battlefield before them then. There is no time for love on the battlefield. And yet Marius left for love and wept for the girl who had loved him.

Grantaire came to their revolution as a drunkard, with eyes glazed. But heart glowing.

He does not have time to reflect on his. 

They need more gunpowder.


	9. (Death of Gavroche) “And little people know, when little people fight.”

The boy is dead.

He was so small, being held in the unsteady arms of one Enjolras’ friends, that Grantaire wonders how the National Guard had managed to target him with such accuracy. It was deliberate. To shoot a young boy at point blank range.

He had been singing, Grantaire hadn’t been close enough to the barricade to see what was happening over its crest, but he had heart him. A silly, happy song about being bigger than you look, and then he had been silenced.

It was nothing like a battle cry.

He was a child.

Only a child.

Grantaire hadn’t known his name, but the frantic calls of ‘Gavroche’ made it clear what name used to be his. A child of the streets, who had never seen the inside of a school, most likely. 

This truly is the end.

And Grantaire thinks that if he were to capture the scene before him in paint that his paintbrush would drip blood across the canvas. 

The blood has started to flow, and soon there will be nothing left at all. He can hear the National Guard beyond the barricade, and they have little gunpowder, few weapons and no hope.

This isn’t how he’d expected to die. He’d expected that his life would end with the same monotony of his life.

Grantaire moves to raise the bottle to his mouth with trembling hands, when delicate fingers wrap around his wrist.

Enjolras is looking at him, with such pity in his eyes that Grantaire feels stunned by the emotion. That it is being addressed to him, of all the men here.

“Are you so shocked, such a wasteful death affects even me? How old was he?”

Because the tears are prickling at Grantaire’s eyes, and he can’t raise a hand to wipe them without displacing Enjolras’ hand on him.

“I do not know. And no, of course not, you are only human of course you cry.”

There is the suggestion of tears in Enjolras’ own eyes, only the shadow of them, but still they are there.

Enjolras’ hand around his wrist is the first nuanced initiated contact since the hours in Grantaire’s rooms.

“And I will bleed just as well I suppose.”

Enjolras’ fingers press against the veins of Grantaire’s wrist for a fraction of a second, feeling the thudding of his blood and Grantaire can’t help but to smile at the gesture. So soft, and so intimate. It feels alien in this battlefield, like an actions that lovers might do as opposed to what they are.

Enjolras drops his hand.

“You are not a solider.”

Grantaire takes another drink, out of habit, the motion relaxing him as much as the outcome.

“No,” he agrees, looking from Enjolras’ face to the rifle in his hand, “nor are you.”

Enjolras shakes his head, although he is smiling, faintly.

“But I have trained for this, you have not. You cannot fight for our cause and we cannot protect you. What will you do when the National Guard begin firing?”

Grantaire sighs, and steps back, and Enjolras’ eyes are still shining. As though the ice of them was melting.

Apollo was becoming human.

It hadn’t been Grantaire’s touch which had sullied him.

“I don’t know what will happen when the fighting starts, I am drunken lawyer never trained in combat, I cannot work a gun to save my life. Although I would try to save yours. That is all I can offer. I will be no help to your revolution; I have no love for it. I should not have come here.”

And Enjolras squeezes Grantaire’s shoulder and slowly Grantaire raises a hand to cup Enjolras’ neck.

He has accepted death, and to feel the pounding of blood in Enjolras’ neck is like an embrace.

When Enjolras speaks Grantaire can feel his jaw move against his hand.

“But I must confess that I am glad that you did. But you should have left when you could.”

Enjolras doesn’t move away from Grantaire as he speaks, and for all the world it is like they are alone at this barricade, that this is all that there is left of the world they had known. And in that respect they are correct.

“I cannot leave, I will not leave you here to die your beautiful death alone.”

Grantaire could paint this scene in oils and memorialise it for eternity and it would remain as the last image before the end of the world. If such a painting survived the end of the world that is. The beauty of Enjolras’ death could be seen forever, in his mind’s eye Grantaire sees reds that bleed into wine across the canvas and golden curls tumbling down into a new world.

Grantaire will never live to see such a painting.

But no earthly painting could compare to the one he envisions at any rate.

Perhaps it is better this way.

Without stepping apart they let go of each other, still standing close enough that if Grantaire pushed forward he could be within Enjolras’ arms once more.

He doesn’t, but his fingers twitch unconsciously.

“I cannot love you.”

And Enjolras looks as though the admission hurts him, as though it physically pains him to have to say it. But Grantaire smiles and shakes his head.

“I am no Revolution, I am no France. I am but a man.”

For that is what Enjolras holds dear, any man could see it, the ice in his eyes is melting under the passion in his heart. Enjolras burns for France the way that most men burn for lust.

A cynic may say that his eyes were wet with tears for the failure to come, but Grantaire shakes his head.

And Enjolras smiles at him, although there is sadness pervading the action.

“Be inside, there is wine, and this is not your revolution to fight. And then should we win, I shall convince you of the virtues of freedom and equality in the bed sheets.”

Grantaire can feel his face flush, and Enjolras skin echoes the colour. 

It is a promise that will never come true, and they both know it. But the illusion of what could be brings them both enough of the future that will never be to tolerate the fact that it will never exist. What Enjolras’ describes is the world that Grantaire longs for, and perhaps it is a world that Enjolras desires too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was only a matter of time until I was inspired to enact Hadley Fraser and Ramin Karimloo's poignant scene from the 25th anniversary's Drink With Me.


	10. (The Final Battle) “Why throw your lives away?”

He believes Grantaire dead. Dead, and lying on the floor of the Musain, bleeding out through his green waistcoat, struck by a bayonet spear or a stray bullet; his blood wetting the floor and mingling with that of his fellow fallen. But Enjolras knows so many to be dead, that his heart is already weighed heavy by it. 

He cannot mourn any more than he already mourns. There is no inch of his heart that is not consumed with grief. 

He is broken by those who fell before him. By Jehan’s proud cries, struck down on the wrong side of the barricade. By the light leaving Bahorel’s eyes and the dying shout that could only have been Bossuet’s luck finally running out entirely. Their blood runs down the streets of Paris. And there, in front of him lies Combeferre, Joly and Courfeyrac. 

Courfeyrac’s whimper before the bullets struck them still rings loud in his memory. He supposes that there are still shouts of fighting beyond the Musian, that there are groans of pain of his dying friends and the heavy tread of the National Guard. But all he can hear is Courfeyrac’s childlike sob before he was shot down.

He has dragged all those who know him into ruin for this dream. For the dream of a new world. But for all their passions they had forgotten the lessons of the past. The world cannot change this fast and Enjolras is but one man. 

His heart cannot sink lower, but his soul cannot rise higher. He is aflame with the revolution and his death with burn its way to the heart of the city.

The embers of their fight will never die, and one day with be roused once again.

He is not bleeding. While others lie twisted and broken he remains a vision of the revolution, the young school boy come revolutionary, beautiful and flowerlike in the moment of his death. 

The guns are aligned at his chest held by anonymous soldiers, who could be Enjolras’ brothers and they do not look as though they wish to shoot. But they must, Enjolras knows this. They will shoot him here, pressed against the wall of the Musian, once so full of memories, they will take aim, fire and he will die for France, clutching at Patria’s scarlet skirts with trembling fingers. The flag is blood red against the swell of his hand. Soon his blood will become one with the flag of freedom. 

It will be a good death.

“Long live the republic, I am one of them.”

And Grantaire has survived, miraculous that he alone remains. That of all of those not to fall it is the young man he’d seen but two days hence. All else from Enjolras’ revolution are dead. And this man is not from his revolution. He holds nothing to it. And yet he pushes forwards. And his eyes are blown wide with revolutionary fervour. Enjolras could easily believe that this man is the revolution’s most ardent supporter. Except he knows that to be false.

And he knows Grantaire’s ardour and where it lies.

“Finish us with one blow.”

And he understands what could bring a man to a fight he does not believe in.

Enjolras knows what could bring a man to stand beside another he had only known once.

And would that he had been given more time.

He would have known the sighs of Grantaire against his skin once more.

“Do you permit it?”

And he cannot speak now, cannot express this to words. They will die a glorious death. Together.

And they are not to live in a world of peace. There were never to live in such a world. France was not ready. Instead they are to die as Enjolras has lived. For the Revolution. And Enjolras wishes that he could wish for something different. He smiles, even in the face of death. His sudden encompassing love for Grantaire momentarily contrasts against everything that he has ever know, and he takes Grantaire’s hand pressing his soul into his palm with suddenly steady fingertips, until the bullets rip the life from both their bodies. 

Patria would never have shared him, and they had such beautiful deaths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry.


	11. (Epilogue) “There is a flame that never dies”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter, and more of an epilogue than anything else. Thank you for reading, and I hope that you've enjoyed this story.

Grantaire dies for their revolution, in the end. 

For the uprising that had no hope of success and the hopes of a better world that were never Grantaire’s to dream. 

His blood mingles in the street with the revolutionary and the guardsmen combined. Death stands unchanging as the great equaliser of men.

Change wasn’t his to seize. And he died for the attempt.

His body joins those of the students that he had watched his pitying eyes. The floor of the café is scrubbed lean and lain with bodies, looking so lost and small in death. 

But not Grantaire, Grantaire in his death has become more than he ever was in life. He lays tall, unseeing eyes finally opened. Even ridden with bullets he has a grace that was never his in life. 

And in death he is laid next to the bravest, and the most loyal soldier France ever had. The noble leader who looks like a boy sleeping in his mother’s arms, the sash around his waist is ripped but held true. In Grantaire’s final moments, yet known to him the loyalty of the bravest revolutionary in France was turned to him. It was ill deserved but freely offered.

Grantaire had a cause, and he was loved.

That was a worthy way to die. And in dying he Grantaire had found a cause worthy to live for.

But the fates are not kind.

France lives without her defenders.

And the world turns on.

Without them.


End file.
